


The Devil to Pay

by codenamecynic



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Plug, Anal Sex, BDSM, Bondage, Breathplay, Church Sex, Cock Rings, Dom/sub, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Edgeplay, Fingerfucking, Gags, Humiliation, Leather Kink, M/M, Public Sex, Rope Bondage, Sex Toys, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 07:44:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codenamecynic/pseuds/codenamecynic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian has trouble with temptation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil to Pay

**Author's Note:**

> Strangely, my first adventure into the land of writing sexy-man-slash. Inspired by the kink meme prompt:  
> http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/9086.html?thread=36612478#t36612478
> 
> [Update: 'The Whip or the Hand That Holds It' is a loose precursor to this fic, but not required reading :)]

Hawke’s blankets smell like cedar and pine. It’s an odd thing to think and its strange that he’s never noticed it before; he might never have noticed it at all if it weren’t for the fact that he has his head buried in them, clean-shaven cheek rubbing against expensive fabric so unlike his own rough sheets in his little Chantry cell.

An odd thing to think with his pants around his ankles and his ass in the air, bent over Hawke’s knees like a naughty child.

The bed is tightly made, corners crisp, pillows fluffed, not a single thread out of place. In fact the only untidy thing in the entire chamber is Sebastian. Even Hawke is immaculate, impeccably groomed, dressed in fine clothing as befits his noble station. For some reason he finds that almost unfair.

An odd thing to think when Hawke’s thick fingers are twisting around inside him, buried to the third knuckle in his tight, needy hole.

There is not a thing in the world that is better than this; not the Maker, not Andraste, not anything except the thick length of Hawke’s cock, pressing up against his belly through a layer of buttery leather. But he can’t even rightly think about that either because Hawke knows, Hawke _knows,_ Hawke knows how to undo him, knows what the friction of callused fingertips against that spot inside turns him into. He is a slave to these fingers and he wants this never to end only slightly less than he wants Hawke to turn him over the bed, over his desk, a chair, _anything,_ and fuck him until he screams, or dies, or comes, or something. Anything.

His cock is throbbing, swollen head pulsing within the tight grasp of his fingers. He can feel the slickness of its weeping tip and that’s the whole reason his hand is there in the first place; it wouldn’t do to stain those soft, expensive, bloody delicious pants with the evidence of his desire. He isn’t allowed to touch himself otherwise, not unless Hawke allows him, and that alone is a bittersweet kind of torment. But to give in to temptation is a sin against the Maker, and Sebastian already has so many things to atone for.

Still, it’s impossible to keep still when the need to move is so great, to fuck himself on the long digits inside him, to rut against the hard-muscled thighs beneath him. But as soon as he tries Hawke digs his fingers into that sensitive little spot hard enough for stars to burst on the edges of his vision and yanks his hand away, palm coming down with a hard smack on his upturned rear.

“Please-” he almost starts to say; the emptiness is unbearable after the languid torture of stretch and thrust, but Hawke ignores him. Hawke can be implacable that way, cold, stern and terse almost to the point of cruelty. Which, despite his pride, his self-respect, and the arrogant nature that he knows is his – Maker forgive him – is what Sebastian likes about him the most. It’s addicting, and he has always had so many vices.

“That’s enough of that,” Hawke says, the tone of his voice distinctly annoyed, which makes his cock leap in his hand for no reason that makes sense at all. The plea to make amends is on his lips, his knees ready to bend, mouth ready to offer itself in tribute to the rigid member secreted away beneath those unfairly delectable trousers, but Hawke’s fist is in his hair and his head cranes backward, arching his spine like a bow. “Get up.”

It’s all he can do to comply, fumbling like a teenager after an awkward tryst in a barn, but at least he has the wherewithal to pull up his pants – or he would, if Hawke would let go of his hair. Which he won’t. And Sebastian doesn’t really want him to anyhow.

“Hands on the bedpost. Now. Both of them.”

Wordlessly Sebastian complies, clinging to the thick post like a lifeline. Even that makes him throb uncontrollably; Hawke’s bed is dark, masculine, and there is something innately phallic about the carved wood beneath his palms. He can’t see a thing but the bedpost in front of him and the wall beyond, but he can feel the heat of Hawke behind him, radiant as the sun.

Any gentleman would show mercy, would give in and fuck him until his legs gave out, but Hawke isn't gentle or genteel. He has a will like iron, far too clever and calculating for anyone’s good, and he knows just what buttons to push, applies pressure to all the weakest parts and draws Sebastian taut as a bowstring, quivering with need on the edge of release.

Hawke was a master of too-much-but-not-enough; why else would his booted foot nudge his legs apart or his fingers circle the eager little pucker between his splayed cheeks? Not inside, but almost, _almost,_ and he wanted-

“Poor little thing. So eager,” Hawke says and his face flushes as red as his hair, because it’s true and he knows it’s true, and Hawke is mocking him but he doesn’t care. All he can focus on is the sweat on the back of his neck, the white-knuckle grip of his hands around the bedpost, and the endless circling of Hawke’s fingers. Relentless. Without mercy.

“Would you beg me?” Hawke inquires, smug and amused and still curious and oh so casual, as though this is the most normal thing in the world, and because Sebastian can’t lie he says simply: “Yes.”

“I know you would.” Behind him he can hear Hawke sigh, and shivers at the rough feeling of a well-groomed beard against his jaw. “Any other day and I would leave you here to wait on me, bound and wanting. Pity. But we have somewhere to be, don’t we _priest?”_

He doesn’t make it all the way to the question, his mind stuck on Hawke’s less than idle threat because he loves the feeling of rope around his wrists, the constriction, the helplessness. It is the best kind of penance, stripped of control, denied the freedom to indulge in his temptations, made only to _take,_ to _receive._

But it does come back to him eventually. Hawke calls him priest – _why, why? He can’t think_ – until he remembers what day it is, why he is here in the first place, so early in the morning in Hawke’s house. The Chantry, the service, they’re going and he _asked for it,_ because Hawke is not always unreasonable and Sebastian really does care about his immortal soul. He should have known there would be the devil to pay.

He doesn’t know why he’s done this to himself or how he can possibly sit through a sermon when all he wants to do is prostrate himself on the floor and beg Hawke to fuck him, and he doesn’t realize that Hawke has stepped away until Hawke is _back_ with a hand ominously placed on his hip. Out of instinct Sebastian goes perfectly still aside from a shiver that climbs his spine when Hawke chuckles darkly and says, “I think you’re going to enjoy this.”

There’s something in his hand, something hard and cool and slick and – _oh Maker_ – it’s sliding into him, inside him, deeper and deeper and further and further until it is all he can do to keep from crying out. He finally does when the inward pressure ceases, his ass clenching tight around unyielding metal. It feels huge – not as thick as Hawke but still, the sensation of fullness is incredible, and he almost comes unglued when Hawke pumps it in and out of him, knobbles he hadn’t rightly felt before stretching and pulling, firing nerve endings into a blaze of tight pleasure that threatens to make him go blind. Hawke pushes it in deep and a low keen escapes his dry throat, the tip of this infernal device rubbing inside him just there, perfect and damning.

“Hawke, please. You can’t think-”

“Can’t I?” Hawke says mildly, enough warning in the tone that Sebastian immediately shuts his mouth. “You can leave if you like. If you don’t want this.” But it really isn’t fair; the metal intruder slides in and out of him the entire time Hawke speaks, and just the slightest brush of a callused thumb against the shaft of his cock is enough to have him trembling with desire. “Tell me to stop, Sebastian.”

And of course he can’t. Because he’s weak, and because he’s afraid, and because he’s all the more aroused because of it. Hawke knows him far too well.

“I didn’t think so. But don’t worry. I’ll make sure you don’t get into too much trouble.”

Hawke takes one of his hands and guides it to the base of the toy. His ass is slick with oil and it coats his fingers where they press against the metal base, and suddenly he is holding it inside himself as Hawke steps away. It is impossible to tell how big it is with just his fingertips and he resists the urge to fuck himself with it as Hawke had done, toying instead with what felt like a loop in the middle of the contraption, or maybe a link of chain.

Familiar red cord is being wound around his waist and he stands still and uncertain as Hawke ties a knot at the base of his spine. Surely Hawke will not lead him bound to the Chantry, but oh, no, it is so much more devious than that. His cock is in Hawke’s hand and it is all he can do not to spill himself on the spot, the whine in the back of his throat cut short when a hinged metal ring closes around the base of his cock, making him swell and yet effectively choking out all opportunity for release. Hawke positions another smaller ring just behind the head of his cock, and Sebastian watches with a mixture of anticipation, dread and rapt fascination as small locks are threaded through and snapped shut.

His hand returns automatically to its twin on the bedpost as Hawke pulls at the rope dangling down his back and takes control of the device within him again. His body begins to push it out on its own without constant pressure to keep its girth deep within him, only to clench helplessly when it is thrust back in, soft red rope coming up between his legs, doubled so that one strand passes to either side of his scrotum. Hawke ties deft knots to either side of his balls – one beneath, one above, just snug enough that Sebastian feels faintly squeezed – and then passes the cord through loops cast into the sides of the rings that constrict his cock.

 _Oh_ – he understands now what Hawke is doing, and fear and desire wash over him in an intermingled wave. The man cannot truly expect him to sit through a Chantry service with a metal plug up his ass and his cock hard as iron, he cannot, he _cannot_ – but he will. And moreover, Sebastian wants to. He isn’t sure if it’s that knowledge that makes him pulse so fiercely, or the abrupt thrust of the toy deep within him as Hawke ties the ends of the rope to the belt he’s created around Sebastian’s waist. Now his cock is held in place by strong red cord, pointing upward and pressed against the flat of his stomach, and when Hawke allows him his hands again he can feel where the rope passes through that little loop on the end of the device inside him when his fingers quest behind.

Hawke redresses him and he feels almost in shock; he could be held captive no more effectively if his lover had clapped him in irons. He watches Hawke toss the keys to his prison casually in the drawer of his desk; once they leave this room there will be no opportunity for escape. That knowledge burns within him bright as a candle in the dark, and if he could come he would do so on the strength of that thought alone.

Walking is a sweet anguish that he thinks will be impossible, only it isn’t, and Hawke’s hand on his upper arm to steady him as he minces down the stairs is a reminder of that. For all that his lover is a hard, harsh man, he knows his limits better than anyone else. If Hawke thinks he can, then he can. And so he will.

That doesn’t make it any less agonizing, though, when Leandra meets them in the foyer dressed in her Sunday best and takes her son’s offered arm. Nor does it make it any less humiliating when he stutters through polite conversation and small talk, trying to summon up manners and good breeding and any hint of charm that hasn’t been stripped away by the grinding of the plug inside him, the way it rubs up against that spot just right, the way he wishes he could beg Hawke to fuck him right there in the street.

Sebastian is so distracted, concentrating simply on putting one foot in front of the other all the way to the Chantry, that he hasn’t considered the implications of _sitting_ until he leaves Hawke and his mother in one of the pews and goes to take his seat among his brethren. The ropes tighten with the bend in his body; where the tip of the toy rubbed before now it presses, and he is sweating, almost panting. This is killing him, he might actually be _dying,_ and knowing that Hawke is sitting just three rows behind him makes it worse, and somehow better.

He knows Hawke won’t punish him, no matter how much he shifts and fidgets, because Hawke doesn’t have to. They are both aware of the kind of dangerous games they play, and it is the threat of discovery alone that gives Sebastian the strength to sit still. As still as he can, anyway, which is so much more difficult than he’d ever dreamed, and by the end of Elthina’s sermon one of the sisters has passed him a handkerchief to mop his brow, thinking he is ill.

And he is ill. Terminally. He would swear to it. The ropes between his thighs curl into him like a cancer, morphing every thought in his head into fantasies and slutty daydreams until it is all he can do not to rock back and forth in his seat, humping away at the plug up his ass because his body doesn’t care if it can’t come, it just wants the friction.

He isn’t even sure he can get up when it’s all over, penitents and the faithful trickling away until the Chantry is all but empty. Kirkwall isn’t a place where people linger overlong in their churches, even the reasonably devout, and for once he is not disappointed but thankful. It feels like it takes forever but finally Hawke comes for him, helping him to stand with a hand on his elbow. There are tears standing in his eyes, wells of frustration; Sebastian does not do well with denial which is why he and Hawke are even lovers to begin with, and when Hawke guides him forward instead of back, toward a confessional instead of toward the door he feels almost lightheaded with relief. Hawke will have mercy on him. He won’t have to walk through Hightown like this again, stumbling every step.

He’s only half right and really he ought to know better. Hawke’s mercy isn’t mercy, and that’s half the reason he likes it so much. Half the reason he needs this.

The confessional is dark and cramped only because Hawke is enormous, filling the space with long legs and broad shoulders. He doesn’t know what to do, letting himself be guided into a corner while Hawke shuts the door behind them, and improvises a lock with a dagger thrust into the frame. This is wrong, this is _so wrong,_ but he can’t find it in him to care. He’s just sat through a sermon on the evils of temptation, squirming on a fistful of cold, implacable metal; there is no room left for sanctimony.

Hawke isn’t tender, but there is a small moment when they come face to face and his lover’s strong hands push sweat-slicked red hair back from his brow. “Survived that, did you?” He asks and Sebastian nods, because that means almost the same thing as _I’m proud of you._ “I’ll bet you’re just dying for a bit of relief.” The pulse jumps in his throat and he swallows hard, watching Hawke’s lips turn up into a smirk. “Take your clothes off. All of them.”

There’s just enough space for him to comply with Hawke leaning with arms crossed against the door, and he does – but slowly. Hawke knows exactly what he’s doing; a naked Sebastian will be so much more difficult to explain if they’re caught. He almost balks, or almost thinks about maybe balking, but then his hands touch his cock for the first time in what feels like hours and he can’t help but shudder at how sensitive he is, how swollen and hard and how vigorously he throbs. And by then he is naked and Hawke is smirking beautifully. He reaches into his pocket and comes away with something in his hand, holding it up for Sebastian to see in the dim light. A hard leather ball held in the center of a thick, sturdy belt.

It’s a familiar thing; it ought to be. He has spent many a long night tied to Hawke’s bed with the bit of this particular gag between his teeth. He loves it and he hates it and when he sees it he groans aloud because that means something is going to _happen._ Hawke is going to do _something,_ and at this point he doesn’t even care what.

“Is this what you want?” Hawke dares him, and because it is only the foremost thing in all of the myriad desires he has at this moment, he nods.

“Tell me you want it.”

“I- I want it.”

“Beg for it.”

“Maker, _please.”_

“Up against the wall.”

He cannot comply quick enough, hands reaching out to brace themselves against the partitioned wall of the confessional. Hawke moves behind him, nearly looming in the half-darkness, and when he fists his hand in Sebastian’s hair and drags his head back, he can feel the solid warmth of a hard muscled chest against his shoulders, the rigid press of a cock against his ass.

Maker, he is going to die here, utterly consumed by his own lust. Thick fingers reach to part his lips and he smells it before he tastes it – finely made leather. Its scent alone sends a shiver down his spine, and he wants this _so much_ that he doesn’t resist at all when Hawke forces the hard leather ball between his teeth, behind them, and cinches the strap tight behind his head. It always feels so much bigger than it looks, his jaw stretched wide, open, any sound muffled and muted, unable to escape until Hawke releases him. Like with so many other things.

Hawke’s fingers trace the perfect ring of his lips around the gag, hand dropping to slide over Sebastian’s sweat-slicked chest and down lower still over belly and hip to cup his balls. The pad of his thumb brushes the underside of his cock, just lightly, just once, but the shockwave of sensation is intense enough to make him buckle, sagging against the wall.

Behind him, Hawke laughs. “Keep that up and I’ll start to think you like this, priest, silenced in your own confessional. Or maybe it’s just this you’re fond of,” he offers, fingers tapping the base of the metal plug held tight against his body by the red rope strung between his thighs. Just the barest contact makes the intruder shiver inside him and he swallows hard, fingers digging into the wood of the wall. Hawke laughs again, a dark sort of chuckle that raises goosebumps all across his overheated skin, leans in close and whispers in his ear. “You know, I hear that in Antiva they make these devious little locking belts, all metal and leather. You like leather, don’t you? Maybe I’ll get you one.”

He’ll happily agree to that later, he thinks, if Hawke will just fuck him _now._ Even with these damnable metal rings tormenting his cock, he doesn’t care, he just wants the hot, heavy feeling of Hawke’s prick filling him up, moving inside him. He will do anything, _anything at all._

 _Yes, please, Maker-_ he thinks, mind all in a jumble when he feels Hawke’s fingers move to his waist, deftly undoing expertly tied knots, unraveling the red cord confining him. It feels strange when they are gone and he misses its touch, feeling strangely even more vulnerable without it.

Hawke pushes him against the wall without warning, pulling his arms behind him and turning his face to one side so that the front of his body is almost flush against the cold, smooth wood. The toy inside him twists with a twitch of strong fingers, thrust deeply in again where it has begun to ease from him. Hawke holds it there and it is all he can do not to rut himself against the wall.

“You are a wicked thing, aren’t you, mouth gagged, your ass stuffed full of metal.” Hawke laughs and Sebastian flushes, full of shame and desire because it’s true. It’s all true. “I’m going to bind your hands now, priest, and you will hold on to that toy. If you don’t…” Hawke doesn’t even need to articulate a threat; Sebastian’s mind fills in the blanks with alacrity, supplying terrible, beautiful fantasies that are equal parts disturbing and enthralling. 

He is terrible, so perverse, but he holds the plug inside of him, tightening muscles until they shake with strain as Hawke folds his arms behind him. It isn’t comfortable but then it isn’t meant to be, palms flat against one another behind his back as though he is praying, rope knotted around his wrists and over his shoulders and between his elbows – not flush together, but close enough that his back arches and his ass sticks out obscenely.

“You have no idea how much I want to spank you right now,” Hawke mutters behind him, palming the slightly splayed cheeks of Sebastian’s ass, spreading them further with the pads of his thumbs. “I could turn this white skin a nice cherry red.” And he could, and Sebastian knows it and almost wants it, but then someone will hear and so he only whimpers around the leather in his mouth. “Next time,” Hawke promises, or threatens, and Sebastian is surprised to hear the jingle of keys being drawn from his pocket.

“You didn’t really think I left these at home, did you?” Hawke says into his ear, and when the uppermost ring comes free and blood rushes to the head of his cock, he can hardly stand it. Hawke’s hand closes around his shaft and pumps and he does buck his hips into it then, unable to help himself. “What am I, an idiot?”

No, he would answer if he could. Not an idiot. Cruel and devious and so fucking unbelievably sexy, but not an idiot. Hawke unlocks the ring around the base of his cock but doesn’t remove it, and he is nearly vibrating in anticipation, desperate to move, desperate to beg, and able to do neither. He will come, he knows he will; it’s too much, his swollen, sensitive cock, the metal plug filling his ass, curling against that spot.

But Hawke knows it too, and rather than free him of that ring he reaches to ease the toy from Sebastian, and the emptiness is devastating. Thank the Maker for the gag; he doesn’t know what kind of sounds he is making as the metal device, now warmed to his body, slips away. He is left quivering, panting through his nose, as Hawke undoes his belt and uses it to hold Sebastian’s thighs together, cinching it tight before turning him around and forcing him down to kneel on the bench built into the wall. The seat is unpadded and is unkind to his knees, but he can scarcely bring himself to focus on that one sensation when Hawke is busy binding him further, securing his ankles together with what he thinks is a bowstring.

He can’t move but to wriggle, and when Hawke finally reaches to unclasp that final metal ring from around his cock, it is with his other hand hard gripped to the back of Sebastian’s neck. He can’t even so much as buck his hips against the air as his cock feels as though it’s swollen to even greater thickness.

“Here comes the hard part,” Hawke says against his hair, and part of him almost wants to laugh in a desperate sort of way, only Hawke doesn’t do jokes or make puns and he is afraid of what torments lie in store for him next. “You will not come until I say so, Sebastian. Do you hear me? You will not.”

 _No, please- anything but that._ That’s all he wants, all he can think about. But Hawke is implacable and will not be moved, even if Sebastian had the voice to beg him with. He is already straining when Hawke slicks his fingers in oil and thrusts them up inside him without ceremony or preamble, stroking languidly. He is still gaping, relaxed and stretched, and Hawke all but purrs against his throat. “Feel how ready you are, loose as a whore. I might decide I like you like this, Sebastian, open and ready for me whenever I want. I know how much you crave a hard cock when I’m not around, maybe you and that toy need to be a little more closely acquainted.” He feels the curve of a grin next to his ear. “Maybe I can even get someone to make it vibrate.”

Maker, the thought almost undoes him and it is through force of will alone that he survives the removal of Hawke’s fingers, biting down on the gag to bear through the wave of pleasure and sharp longing that crests over his body. His skin is slick with sweat, muscles taut; he can’t move, can’t speak, can’t do a thing but wait, ears straining toward the sound of Hawke’s trousers slowly coming undone. He shivers, flexes his fingers and toes, and lets out a low moan when Hawke’s hand returns to his hair, pulling his head back with a little snap and directing his attention up the wall. The symbol of the Chantry is there, muted in the dull light, but present nonetheless.

“Pray,” Hawke orders him, relentless, and then presses the head of his cock inside. It burns, Hawke is big and even with a thorough, prolonged fucking by the toy he still isn’t completely prepared. Still, he likes it this way, likes that his lover’s cock is the largest thing that has ever been inside him. He can feel it in every part of him, that slow, unstoppable, inward slide, all the way down to his very bones. His thighs strain, wanting to move, wanting to adjust, but there is nothing he can do but take it. Take it as Hawke takes him.

He’s unbelievably eager – it’s almost shocking, fucking himself back against Hawke’s hips as much as he can move on his knees bent forward with his head pulled back. It isn’t much but it’s something, and he can feel all the tension in Hawke’s body. His hips snap forward and back, thrusting deep, every stroke rubbing up against that spot inside Sebastian that is already so sensitive. The tip of his cock is wet with fluid, it drips down his shaft and dampens his thighs and it is all he can do to keep his eyes locked on the flaming sword above him, to concentrate his whole being on not spilling himself too soon.

Hawke growls, a primal, earthy sound, the sound of pleasure drawing nigh; he has not been as unaffected by Sebastian’s predicament as he pretends. The thought of Hawke sitting in his pew next to his mother like a proper noble lad, hard as stone watching his lover squirm on a hard metal cock, makes him moan out loud. The sound escapes even around the leather ball, and with a furious snap of his hips forward Hawke’s hand moves from buried in his hair to clasped around his throat. He is already panting through his nose and now he gasps around the gag and somehow it is easier this way because he has to focus on breathing and not on trying not to come. And so he does almost effortlessly when Hawke orders him to, murmuring _come for me_ tightly in his ear when his thrusts turned jagged, quick and deep and brutal. Sebastian spills himself onto his belly and thighs while Hawke sinks his teeth into his shoulder to muffle a roar, pulsing heavy inside him as he fills him with his seed.

He’s dead, he thinks later, he’s gone and died and this is what being at the Maker’s side feels like – sticky and constricted and incredibly well-fucked. But slowly by slowly he comes back to himself; Hawke unbinds his legs, gently unknots the rope from around his arms, and reaches to release the buckle that holds the gag in Sebastian’s mouth. His jaw works slowly, sore, but not as sore as his cock is when Hawke gently wipes his seed from his skin. That’s the strangest part of this, Hawke being gentle, because Hawke _isn’t_ gentle, ever, with anyone, but he wraps Sebastian in his shirt and sinks down next to him on the bench, holding him against his side with one long, languid arm.

“Good?” Hawke asks with a raised brow later, eventually, and half-drunk on sex and exhaustion Sebastian reaches to curl his fingers into his dark beard.

“Very.”

“Hmph. Good.”

“I love you, Garrett.” He has no idea where that comes from; it’s not like he hasn’t said it before, but he doesn't say it often. Come to think of it, Hawke has _never_ said it, ever; sweet, meaningless nothings roll off his hard exterior the way sword blows roll off his shield. But this isn’t _nothing_ and he’s not just another one of Sebastian’s conquests – quite to the contrary, in fact – but he doesn’t know how to say that part without it coming out all wrong and so he doesn’t.

But Hawke cocks an eyebrow, neither skeptical nor confused, and says, “I know.”

It’s as close as he’s going to get, but it’s as close as he needs to be.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] The Devil to Pay](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12117921) by [BabelGhoti (TheHandmadeTale)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHandmadeTale/pseuds/BabelGhoti)




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